


Soul of Wit

by YellowDistress



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Oneshot, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, a nice little gunshot wound never hurt anybody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 14:02:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowDistress/pseuds/YellowDistress
Summary: Peter doubts Tony will remember him.





	Soul of Wit

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in some of my drafts and cleaned it up a bit, it's short but I thought I'd share! ❤

“Mister Stark?”

 

It was a whisper and it flitted away. It was so dark there – in that room of nothing – nothing absolutely _nothing_. Peter’s watch said it was nearing two in the morning, which meant two things: he was probably going to miss first period because he would oversleep, and his aunt was going to be most upset he had not come home at a decent time. He was somewhat nauseous from the night’s events, sticky nearing his navel, and the dried blood had clotted into his skin. The bandage was pressed, adhesive tape holding tightly. There was a figure, pacing, breathing heavily and he had been startled from sleep by the sound of something breaking – but it was too dark and Peter did not know where he was – he knew Mister Stark was there, recognized his racing heart beat and the humming of the device on his chest. It glowed, under clothing, visibly – a head shaking back and forth.

 

It had felt like a vicious punch in the hip, his stomach, around the bellybutton. The crack had opened wide enough through the air to be heard for miles and miles and miles and Peter imagined lying on a bed in the city and hearing that – not knowing what it felt like when the fire pierced the soft flesh there. Peter could not remember the guy’s face, other than the fact his eyes had looked scared of Peter – of Spider-Man because he was about to be…arrested? Did Peter even arrest people, or did he just web them up? Sometimes that theory was lost to him – in his ground-breaking firefight. Not much – because Peter had not fought back. Had simply crumbled.

 

Peter’s senses had not flinched, and he knew why.

 

The party downtown – alcohol, holy shit, it didn’t even _taste_ good. Peter and Ned didn’t drink – but it was there, nothing was wrong, he wasn’t drinking to drown some underlying sorrow bubbling into him like a flame, or a beaker, ablaze. It was just him – and Ned – being stupid. Then he had heard the scuffle, had put on the suit, had intervened and had gotten shot. His metabolism prevented pure disorientation sure, but…his senses were off, and if he had to bet, he bled faster. Peter did not remember the concrete in his skin, or someone cutting into his suit, there was just this subconscious realization that it had happened, and he was lying on his back towards and unfamiliar ceiling, and there was anger in that room, anger directed to him.

 

Maybe.

 

“Go back to sleep.”

 

Peter could not see him clearly, but he was standing there, the curtains were closed, his chest was blue. Peter’s fingers went to the adhesive bandage, and tugged, making a tearing sound through the room, but the blue lunged for him. Grabbed his wrist, and the voice hissed once more, a little forceful, less gentle, “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Did he get me?”

 

A breath. Yes, and the anger was there. Heavy. Peter wanted the mattress to swallow him, even if he couldn’t see his mentor looming above him. Hands were working to press the bandage back into his skin and Peter flinched a little, pressure applying to an obvious wound. Peter’s chest heaved a little, and the hands stilled, fingers stopping, and Peter realized how cold it was, that he was exposed, his suit was gone. Peter pushed at the wrists, and he croaked, “Ow.”

 

“Yes, he got you, he _shot_ you.”

 

Peter was cold – cold – it was too cold. He started to grab for a blanket, or something, but his limbs weren’t working the way he wanted them to. Orders were just orders in the back of his skull, nothing to follow through with. Peter wondered if he was still drunk – but he hadn’t been in the first place, he didn’t think. He couldn’t recall any violence in his vision. Swaying on two feet, like the other kids. He would never do it again – it was once. But stupid. Spider-Man had stuff to do, he couldn’t do what the other kids did. Peter reached out, taking Mister Stark’s sleeve and he thought maybe it was him that smelled like alcohol, but it wasn’t.

 

“You broke something.”

 

“You’re awful nosey,” Mister Stark wasn’t softening. But he didn’t pull from Peter’s vise grip on his sleeve like a petrified child. Hesitance, and Mister Stark was always putting up these walls. Now that the internship was real – that Peter was around more often, the walls seemed to get higher. But then other days they would get really low, to the point Peter could step forward – and into it – and hold onto some emotional attachment. A figure who allowed him to ask questions like that. But right now, the wall was high, probably because Peter had made him angry. The adult’s voice went on, “Drinking on a school night, real smart.”

 

Peter answered, more so spontaneously, and he only realized that it sounded like an indigent child, “You’re drinking on a weekday.” 

 

“Because I can’t bring you to a hospital, Rhodes is out of town, and Cho is thousands of miles away. So, I had to sit and figure out how to get you stable enough until someone can _get_ here. I’ve already pumped you full of antibiotics in case of infection, but I can’t do much else myself. Something needed to calm my _nerves_.”

 

A pause, and he went on, sounding like he was swallowing venom, “Let us not forget you also decided to put on the suit, and go fight like a ‘badass’. After having…I don’t even wanna know how many shots you needed to get past that metabolism of yours. Probably enough to kill an elephant or something – “

 

“You’re exaggerating,” Peter stated hesitantly, “All it really did was mess with my senses, I couldn’t feel the gun coming – I wasn’t expecting it. It was a mistake.”

 

Silence rolled. Peter hated it. Also, didn’t understand it much. He continued to hold onto Mister Stark – as if he worried the anger would draw him away, and even if Peter was frustrated he did not want to be alone in that dark room glued to a mattress without much strength to move. So he wouldn’t push the argument too far, fear of abandonment showing itself in an ugly way. Sometimes people just…got shot, he supposed. Maybe he could have been better – but the silence was eating him up, and he couldn’t let go. And Mister Stark just sighed quietly…

 

“A mistake.”

 

The anger relented just a little bit, Peter felt it – when the room shifted out of it and born was something else he couldn’t recognize, so he almost preferred Mister Stark being angry with him. Sometimes it was incredibly silent in his head. In a way he couldn’t fully voice. He didn’t know why he was always dying to make these mistakes, and the self-loathing would bloom, but it did. Mister Stark went to move away, but Peter would not let go because being alone – it felt like the most horrifying thing. He didn’t even know where he was.

 

Mister Stark was blinking down at him, at his hand, at his sleeve. The man’s hands were shaking, Peter noticed. Peter also noticed the way his head tilted, and he seemed to fall into confusion. Peter wondered if Mister Stark would ever understand – this brevity – their mentor-mentee relationship. It was a theory of brevity, it didn’t exist, Peter realized. None of that made sense. Peter made it up to make sense of it, this was not brief, but it was a forever sort of thing. Peter would die admiring Mister Stark, Mister Stark would die forgetting about him.

 

“You scared, kid?” Mister Stark sounded upset again, “Should be. You almost bled to death.”

 

There was a pause, consideration after Peter flinched at the tone of his voice. Shifting, and Mister Stark let out a deep sigh, and let Peter continue to hold on. Peter swallowed – his throat closed a moment, then opened again and Peter whispered, “Yes.”

 

Mister Stark dropped his arm that wasn’t being held, “Right…That was probably a dick thing to say. I’m not – I’m not out here to scare you, but sometimes I feel like I’m telling a cautionary tale.”

 

In the dark, Mister Stark looked even more wrecked than he did in the light. But younger, for some reason. There was shifting, a chair being pulled close, Peter did not release his arm. Brevity. This was all very brief, and Peter knew that. He was not ignorant to it. Mister Stark inhaled, like he was thinking, and then, “This is a cautionary tale. Don’t drink and play superhero.”

 

“Have you?”

 

“I’m not a role model,” Mister Stark said.

 

Peter bit the inside of his mouth, “You’re wrong.”

 

“I _mean_ it,” The tone had a bite to it, Mister Stark didn’t pull his arm away – the connection remained, but his free hand rose up and grabbed the pillow behind Peter’s head, just so he could tug it forward and tilt Peter’s head further up for emphasis and eye contact that was distorted by the lack of lighting, “You behave. You’re better.”

 

Peter’s eyes fluttered, he was tired, but he wanted to talk.

 

“But you’re the best. No one is better than the best.”

 

“Hell,” Mister Stark muttered, annoyed, under his breath, “This is the hero worship that gets people killed. Why were you even drinking? Huh? Trying to impress someone?”

 

Peter’s eyes averted. Brevity. Mister Stark would never remember this conversation. Because it wasn’t important, but Peter was going to remember it forever – he already knew. This was Tony freaking Stark that was lecturing him. But Peter was just Peter Parker, and he had gotten shot because he had been just a tiny bit buzzed. Peter inhaled, and the answer was lame. It arrived though, all the same…

 

“I wanted to be normal.”

 

Silence. Peter had to admit, he expected a witty comeback. Instantly. But it didn’t come. Instead there was a sigh, a brief slouching of the man’s shoulders as if he had just been kicked. Brevity, brevity, brevity –

 

“Well kid, then you’re wrong,” Mister Stark said, as if musing, “You’re wrong to want that. No arguments.”

 

Peter was almost startled by the bluntness. Peter tried to think, but it was getting kind of hard. He sunk into the mattress a little more as thoughts bloomed and he tilted his head to the side, the pillow holding him gently. Peter’s chest shook a little, but he felt calm, “Are you gonna remember me?”

 

Brevity.

 

He could tell Mister Stark was surprised, just by the quiet that followed. By the sound of his heart beat, and he almost seemed frustrated by the question. Like it was stupid or something, but Peter had to know or it would bother him the rest of the night, as most questions did when they would bloom and he would text his mentor and ask at three in the morning, or Ned, or anyone who had the answer. Google, mostly. It almost felt like there was an urge in Mister Stark that wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him until his brain rattled in his skull, but it didn't happen like that. 

 

“Why would you ask that?”

 

“Just…tell me…honest,” Peter murmured.

 

He expected hesitance, but instead it was just an answer, unseasoned and plain.

 

“The amount of cardiac distress I'm put under because of you will probably prevent me from forgetting. But just so you know, I didn't like that question...You're very memorable.”

 

There was tenderness, when the index finger poked him between his eyes. When a blanket was finally draped over him and he was warm again…When Mister Stark continued to allow him to hold onto his sleeve.

 

…

 

_It’s all so brief._


End file.
